A Surfeit of Curses
by Playing Passerine
Summary: Buffy Pirates of the Carib. x-over. While researching curses during the Incan Mummy Princess fiasco, Giles finds a most interesting reference to a certain Potential named Elizabeth Swann and her experience with curses and 'ghost stories'. Please R&R!
1. Default Chapter

Giles was in research mode.

Or, that's what the children would call it. _Not that they really were children. Children weren't driven by hormones. Children would be more worried about strange deaths in a museum (even if strange deaths were rather ordinary in Sunnydale) than about not having a date to a costume party. Children were not driven by hormones the way vampires were driven by demons_, Giles thought sourly.

He took a gulp of tea from a formerly white mug now stained a dusky brown from years of constant use. Giles still wished to maintain a certain calm. Time would come later for battle ready tenseness and coffee.

Surprisingly little had been written about Meso-American curses. It seemed an almost entirely unresearched topic. _Odd, considering the sheer amount of blood magic practiced by the local peoples. Even though traditional witchcraft was really brought by the Spaniards. Every civilization has their dark magics, so why has no one looked into these places? An entire continent skipped? Shoddy work, really. Perhaps I should write a trifling monograph on the subject, voicing this question and possible avenues of approach, for the Council. _His pulse sped up at the idea of adding something substantial to the published annals of demonology and dark magic._ That is, if I ever had the time,_ he tacked on ruefully. _That is a benefit other watchers have. Watchers with slayers who Listen._ Aware that his inner monologue was about to turn into wallowing in self pity, Giles mercilessly slaughtered that train of thought.

Instead he returned to his last ditch research effort. Paging through decades, then centuries, of Watcher's diaries. Hoping to find any reference to curses originating in early American cultures. He had initially limited his search to Incan culture, then slowly expanded to include all South and Central American cultures until about the time of the arrival of the Spanish.

A body with modern dentistry mummified in the museum's Inca exhibit, a broken stone disk, a strange man threatening people. It was a headache. Except for the strange man, Giles was privately sure Buffy could clean the floor with him, not that he would tell _her_ that.

He unceremoniously plunked one last diary on his desk. Not that he would ever admit to treating a book less than gently, but some days even librarians got more than their fill of books.

Protesting at it's misuse, the book tossed up a miniature mushroom cloud of dust.

Giles coughed, took off his glasses, polished them with all due ceremony, and began to read.

The leather cover of the volume was heavily stained with a whitish crystalline wash. It looked like salt, the sort of pattern that shoes get when taken off at the beech and forgotten at low tide. Giles hoped it was something as mundane as salt. He read a few pages, scratching his grey head uncertainly, almost unconsciously. It was, by far, the most boring and pompous volume he had ever read. A fact which was at serious odds by the slovenly nature of the pages, which were well thumbed and covered in brown stains. Evidently this man was watching a well-born young lady, a potential, from a distance. 

In the middle of the seventeenth page, the handwriting suddenly changed. Giles let out a half snorting, half clucking sound that ended in a sigh. This particular watcher must have gotten into an accident or else a slovenly and nearly illiterate watcher had taken his place. The mottled and torn vellum pages were covered with crabbed writing which contained some of the most atrocious spelling and grammatical errors her had ever seen.

Giles was forced to half translate as he read.

May 1, 17—

Left port today. Took over Andrew's duties. 'Od's blood, 'e was supposed to carry out this duty, but the man can't handle a pond, let alone the sea. M' mother must a' found him on the street or some such. He can't be blood 'o mine. 

Not only am I obliged to dress clean cause o' the bigwig future gov'nor, but I have to watch 'is girl for anything unusual. Unusual! It's bloody unusual to have a woman on board. Bad luck, it is. Bad luck.

--J. Gibbs


	2. bloody pirates!

Giles scanned a few pages ahead. Blessedly, the man's spelling and grammar tended to improve over time. _Perhaps the influence of having to act properly on a regular basis in front of someone important._ He dusted the dried carcasses of insects off the pages, and shook them out of the spine. Their constant crunching sound irritated his frayed nerves further._ It was certainly not for the council's benefit._

July 17—

Picked up a spot o' unusual flotsam today.

Signs were bad from th'start. Bad weather. Misty an' still. 'tis unlucky enough to have a woman onboard--miniature one or no, but it be downright damning with the lass singing pirate songs and running on about how exciting it would be to meet some. The things I could tell her, scare her out of her curly head. Captain wouldn't like it though, or her father. Not sure if it's stupidity, a girl's fancy, or the headstrong bravery of a potential. One o' the first two, they be closely linked, after all. Mayhaps she'll grow out of it enough to settle down and make some patient man a handsome wife.

After our illustrious captain…

--hundreds of years later Rupert Giles could still feel the sarcasm drip off the page. He let out a snicker that clashed with his cultured appearance and read on—

…told the girl he planned to hang any pirates he met, acted out in detail by myself, she wandered off to lean over the starboard rail. She looked amused, rather than ill. I'll give her that much credit. Not violence, not rolling motions bother her overmuch. But I kept one eye half on her, wouldn't do to have her falling…

She shrieked, and every sailor amongst us rolled our eyes, wondering what small thing could send her off thus. A rat? An eel? She called out something about a boy being in the water—and a mate picked up the cry with man overboard.

Much huffing and cussing and hauling later we got our man. 

Boy really, not much older than the lass. The whelp looked like a drowned rat. Familiar somehow, too. But I've known many a drowned rat, and plenty of non drowned ones.

We took up the boy, and set the girl on him. Turning, we saw a wrecked ship drift toward us out of the ungodly mist. One voice insisted that the gunpowder must've caught fire, I said all their arms did them no good. Say what they will, I know it was pirates. Don't have to see her to know her. 

It was the Pearl.

--J.Gibbs

--Giles shook his head and raised his eyes to the clock. _This is turning into a bloody pirate story. Maybe the potential is Wendy… All I need is Peter Pan. But precious little I can do right now._ His eyes flicked to a half hidden coffee pot, still not quite time for coffee. He very quietly poured something from a small flask into his tea, and settled down for a long read.

A/N I haven't seen this particular episode of Buffy in ages, anyone know where I can find a good outline/ summary of it?

Hope you enjoy, please R&R! 


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